


A Second Chance

by imsfire



Series: The Jem Chronicles [5]
Category: The Town (2010)
Genre: AU, Gen, Non-canon Character Death, alternative ending, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:04:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1280404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imsfire/pseuds/imsfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A "what-if" story; what if Doug HAD intervened,  in the aftermath of the Fenway Park job, when he saw his best friend cornered and about to be killed?</p>
    </blockquote>





	A Second Chance

**Author's Note:**

> A "what-if" story; what if Doug HAD intervened, in the aftermath of the Fenway Park job, when he saw his best friend cornered and about to be killed?

He sat in the diner and tried to light a cigarette. His hands were shaking – hell, he was shaking all over – but he managed it on the second attempt and drew in a long pull of the smoky sweetness. The waitress was hovering by him, and he fought down the urge to yell at her, and ordered a coke in a voice that sounded only slightly off-key.  
He mustn’t draw attention to himself. Not now, with the bag of cash lying on the floor at his feet. Safe. His. Jeezus fuckin’ Christ. It was all his; he was pretty sure he knew where Doug had stowed his share, too. And Doug was dead.  
Doug was dead. His best friend, the dumb decent guy he’d served time to save, once. No saving him now. Doug had had some fool plan about going straight and making a new start. He called it having a second chance, but really it was just running off to Florida with his new piece of ass. It was all her fault; the fuckin’ bitch had given him these ideas, she had killed him, or as good as.  
Well, the cops would be at her apartment soon, telling her that her dumb-ass boyfriend had gotten himself shot. And she would cry. Christ, would she cry.  
If it had been the other way around – if it had been him lying in the street with blood all over his face and his eyes jammed open in shock; if it had been him dead, would anyone be crying for him? There’d have been plenty of rage, plenty of hate, plenty of vengeance sworn. But probably the only person who would actually be upset was Krista; and, shit, she was the one who had sold them to the fuckin’ Feds.  
His own sister.  
His sister had sold them out, and the guys were dead because of it. Doug was dead. Gloansy and Elden were dead. Even the Florist, putting the pressure on, playing his favourite fuckin’ games once too often, even he was dead.  
He drank a quick mouthful of the coke, hardly tasting it. What the hell was going to happen now, with Fergie gone?  
It had been their rendezvous point, if they got separated; the Italian place opposite the Florist’s. But when he turned the corner he had seen Doug walking into the shop itself, cool as a kitten. Then there was a shot, and another, and several more in a rapid burst. He had run to the door, pulling out his own gun from the back of his pants. If they had taken Doug, he would take them. Fuckin’ bastard, with all his talk about loyalty, he was having Doug wiped out? It seemed like he’d done Fergie’s dirty jobs all his life; he had never realised there could be a point where he would say “Too much, no more….” He reached the shop and burst in; and Doug had emerged from the back room, alive and unhurt and saying calmly “He’s dead. I killed him.”  
“What?!”  
He had gone through to check, unable to credit what he’d heard. The old man lay sprawled among orchids, bleeding from four bullets to the body. One shot at least had been very carefully placed, and it was not a pretty sight.  
“Jeezus, Doug, what the hell are you doing?”  
“He set us up. He set us up to fail! All this was meant to get me out of the picture. You guys were just collateral. Fuckin’ collateral!”  
“Jeezus. Fuck, what? What the hell?”  
Doug kicked the shop door open again and strode into the street. He was still blazing with anger; hyped from the raid and the run and now from killing, he was like the old Doug again, wired and burning. His long legs ate up the sidewalk; it was impossible to keep up with him without running.  
“Jeezus – what the fuck – what the fuck - ?”  
Doug whirled, glaring at him; glaring at everything. “He thought he was the Man. He thought he was the fuckin’ Man! He thought he owned me. I am sick - I am sick up to here with having to bow to the Man. I just want to be free of all that shit. Nobody owns me and I am not collateral. You are not collateral. He never wanted the money; the biggest job we ever pulled for him, and he’d gone straight and told your sister because he knew the cops would put the screw on her. We weren’t ever meant to get out, any of us. Fuckin’ collateral!”  
“Okay. Okay. Fuck! So now what the hell happens? Did you think about that at all when you went in there? What're you gonna do? – You gonna step up, take it all over, hey, Doug? - you gonna be the new Man?”  
Doug had laughed; had actually laughed at him. “No, of course not!”  
He hadn’t thought it through; not Doug. All he’d seen was his dumb-ass plan to run away being screwed up.  
“Well, that’s great. That’s just great. Do I even have to do your fuckin’ thinking for you? You asshole, Doug, someone is always the Man! What the hell were you thinking?”  
And then the cops had come round the corner and they had had to make a break for it.  
They had split up again, taking different routes through the park and across the half-empty parking lot; and for a moment there it had felt as if he had every Fed in the country on his ass. There were footsteps, right behind him; they were catching him up, there was no time to think, no time to breathe. Any second they would be taking him down and then there would be no time for anything any more. It was a bright morning, there were yellow leaves on the ground, and a soft-drink cup someone had dropped was rolling just a few feet away, back and forth round its own little curve along the sidewalk. He had meant it, when he said he wouldn’t go back to jail again. He kept moving when a voice shouted at him to drop the bag and put his hands in the air. His steps felt dreamlike and slow. When finally he had spun round to fire in reply, he knew what would happen, and he was bracing himself for the end.  
But Doug, on the far side of the parking lot, had fired first.  
The tall Fed behind him dropped, cursing, turning away to face his attacker. Everyone turned Doug’s way; shouting, shooting. And he had seized the one chance he would have, and run for it. He thought Doug had more cover than him, but when he looked back at the burst of gunfire it was already too late. So he had gone on running, since there was nothing else he could do.  
He lit another cigarette, and was pleased to see his hands were steadier. He savoured the taste, and took another mouthful of coke to follow it. The sweet hit of sugar, the mellowing fire of tobacco smoke, flooded into him in a rush that was sensual and intensely alive.  
He had gotten away. He was alive; he had a fuckin’ king’s ransom in money and he was alive. And, perhaps, even, free.  
Who would pick up, where the Florist had been chopped off? There were plenty who might want to, might expect to. It was going to get fuckin’ messy round here for a while. He didn’t want to come through all this, and see Doug die to get him through, and then get wiped in some pissing match between wannabes.  
“I am sick of having to bow to the Man,” Doug had said. “Nobody owns me and I am not collateral.”  
Nobody owned him now but the medical examiner and the coroner’s office.  
Ten years ago I killed a man to stop this from happening. Stop this day from coming, when my best friend, my brother, wouldn’t be here anymore. A week ago I told him he owed me for that, and I made him come out today to pay that debt.  
He drew their fire, so I could get away. He gave up all his I-wanna-be-free shit, all his second chance, fresh start, new life bullshit, all his stupid fuckin’ daydreams and everything he hoped he was still going to do in his life. He gave it all up, to pay back his fuckin’ debt.  
So who really killed Doug? Feds were doin’ their job – cheap scum like that got no choice but do their job. So who? The Florist? My fuckin’ sister? The girl? Or me?  
I killed my best friend, as sure as if I fired the shots myself. He’s never gonna marry, never gonna have a kid; never gonna go to his kid’s first communion, school show, graduation, nothing; and he’s never gonna go to Florida.  
At least he got out free, for five minutes. I wonder what the hell that felt like?  
What does it feel like? To be free…

 

Anyone watching the diner would have seen him in the corner, finishing his coke and his cigarette and then sitting quietly with his head in his hands, thinking; a lean, muscular man with light-brown hair in a buzz-cut, and a soft cherub’s mouth in a hard face. Anyone watching him closely would have seen the flicker of emotions that sat strangely on features hardened by a lifetime of anger; confusion and guilt, and finally a deep sadness. They would have seen him light another cigarette and smoke it slowly, brooding; they would have seen him look down into the large black bag on the floor at his feet, and then straighten and lose himself in thought again. Have seen him, at last, pay for his drink and leave, the bag heavy on his shoulder; start up the road towards the river and then stop, and think again, and turn away; and head down town, towards the rail station, and away from his home and everything familiar to him.  
But no-one was watching, and no-one saw Jem Coughlin leave.


End file.
